


your friends are a fate that befell me

by groundedsaucer (coasterchild)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bondage, Cuckolding, F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, canon-typical attempted strangulation, dom/sub dynamics, kind of, some light choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26097148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coasterchild/pseuds/groundedsaucer
Summary: The Final Lair, but Sexy.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 22
Kudos: 79





	your friends are a fate that befell me

**Author's Note:**

> Working titles for this one include:  
> -This Ain't Phantom of the Opera XXX: a Porn Parody  
> -The lair makes everyone horny, IT'S NORMAL (ty melanie)  
> -The One Where Raoul's Poorly Timed Boner Fixes Everything
> 
> Just pretend that an angry mob is not going to bust down the door at any minute, okay? Also, like mostly anything I post, this is largely based on ALW Phantom, most specifically the 25th RAH performance, but feel free to imagine whatever you want; I'm not a cop.

Erik stepped back from Christine’s embrace with great effort. He felt a part of him wrenched free, as though she’d pulled it from him, drawn it out like venom. She had pressed her perfect lips to his, heedless of the terrible sight before her, and even when her eyes had closed against the horror, her hand, soft and smooth like living porcelain, had touched the twisted planes of his face with the sweetness of a lover and unafraid.

His eyes shut tight, holding her by the shoulders. Erik knew, with a certainty that felt like mortar in his limbs, that he loved Christine, and that her misery would destroy him just as surely as years of gnawing, wretched loneliness had. 

She stared up at him, her face inscrutable with warring emotion; distress, pleading, hope, and a softness that Erik could not bear to see, because with it he could feel hope swelling in his own chest. 

He turned from her, and with each step he felt that poison leaving him, only to be replaced by a crushing certainty: He would let them go so that he might be worthy of the gift she had given him, and they would be happy as he rotted.

He approached the Viscount, who was sweating and struggling weakly against the noose at his throat. He stole a glance at Erik, and just as quickly he looked to the floor, something like shame darting across his face--a rare thing, Erik imagined, for this brave young suitor. 

Looking down at the lit candle in his hand, Erik noticed in his eyeline what might, after all, have been the source of that shame. The line of his trousers was quite obviously interrupted at his groin, and when Monsieur deChagny took notice of Erik’s discovery, he grunted and tried in vain to adjust himself, to make it less obvious, but the noose held him straight, and there was no hiding it once seen.

The thoughts that rushed through Erik’s mind at this development were jumbled and contradictory. A part of him wanted to scoff, to deride the Viscount for this crass display. He wanted to tighten the noose in disgust, and yet another part, however small, felt sympathy for a man whose body had so betrayed him in such a dire hour. He may have been born handsome and rich and beloved, but even he might not escape the cruel whims of nature.

Erik reached up for the noose with his free hand, loosening it just so the Viscount might catch enough of his breath to speak clearly.

“You cannot!” he gasped, the air filling his lungs in a great gulp. “You cannot keep her here,” and one of his hands fell from where it gripped the rope at his neck, grasping at Erik, a plea. “No matter what she might do to save me.”

Erik let the noose tighten again, cutting him off. “And I will not, you have my word.” The Viscount struggled, his disbelieving eyes darting between Erik and his dear Christine.

“I’ll let the both of you go, free to live your lives in unfettered bliss, should Christine--should both of you--” Erik leveled a stare at the panting Viscount, “--choose it.”

In a smooth motion, Erik raised the candle to the noose, and almost at once the threads frayed and broke under the weight of their burden. Monsieur deChagny crumpled to the floor in a heap, gasping for breath and holding his throat. Erik looked on as he clambored to Christine, and the two of them embraced, her falling to her knees to better hold him. 

“As I said, you may leave now if you wish; I shall put no obstacle in your way. But,” Erik took a step towards them, and they drew closer to one another, “I propose another choice, a more equitable one this time, I think.”

“Please, Angel…” Christine held the Viscount’s hand in hers, squeezing it. 

Erik bowed his head, showed her his empty palms to assure her of his genuine offer. “I only suggest that the Viscount and I are given the opportunity to make our case for your happiness as a bride.”

Monsieur deChagny spoke with a ragged hoarseness. “What are you saying.” It did not sound like a question. 

“Come now, Monsieur le Vicomte. Can you tell me you would not take your blushing bride here and now in this ghastly place if she gave you the slightest encouragement? I do believe there is evidence to the contrary in your trousers.”

The Viscount grimaced and looked at the floor, clutching at Christine like a child. Ms. Daaé, for her part, looked back at Erik, wide-eyed and with a blush that spread from her cheeks to her collarbone. 

“Are you suggesting that he--that I--” she gripped her bodice, steadying herself but unable to conclude the thought.

“It’s not so absurd, is it? I only ask that you know what choice you are truly making. Would it not be better for your Viscount to make his vows secure in the knowledge that he was the better man, the one who deserved you, in every way it can be so?”

Monsieur deChagny’s jaw had clenched at that, but he hadn’t yet managed to meet Christine’s eyes. 

“Let your beloved Viscount prove that he can please you, Christine. Let him prove that he can bring you to the height of ecstasy and catch you on the other side. And,” again, a step forward, “if you wish it, allow me to do the same.”

“I--” her blush deepend, and there was a flutter in her breathing that Erik recognized from that first night he brought her down here and told her to sing. 

“Should you choose him, there will be no deceit in it, no tarnished honor. Should you choose me, well, you needn’t worry about the society gossip in that case.” A humorless smile tugged at his mouth, and Erik smoothed over his jacket. He knew full well how hopeless this endeavor was. That even if he, looking as he does and being who he is, could please Christine beyond measure, she still would not choose his life for herself, because no one would if they could help it. And yet, God--damnable God--he hoped, like a sliver under his skin that only went deeper as he tried to pull it out.

“Raoul,” Christine whispered, and she tilted her Viscount’s chin up to her, “look at me.”

“Christine,” he still clutched at her, “I’m sorry, I don’t know _why_ \--”

“Shh, it’s all right.” 

“Tell him if he doesn’t want to, if he’d rather have you first on your wedding night or not at all, then all he has to do is say no.” Erik was close enough now to stand over them. “All it will cost is one lingering question at the back of your minds.”

“Darling,” Christine spoke softly as she pushed a strand of her Viscount’s hair from his bloodshot eyes, and the tenderness made Erik’s heart ache with something duller and more permeating than jealousy. “Is--do you want…”

The Viscount looked at her finally, shaking with--what, fear? Need? Or some potent mix of that and more. “I want,” he whispered, curling one unsteady hand around the back of her head, “you.” He pulled her into a kiss, and Erik nearly recoiled. It was a messy, needful, grasping thing, the way his mouth pressed into hers, tasting her like he was starving for it, and Christine, after a brief shock, returned it, as though she were starving, too. 

When they finally parted, dazed and gazing at one another like fevered fools, Erik held out his hand. 

“And you, Christine? Is this choice agreeable to you?”

She looked at his outstretched hand, and then back to Raoul, whose lips were parted, clearly wanting to be on her again. Reaching out, she put her fingers in Erik’s palm and, finally, nodded.

The three of them now stood, and Erik led Christine by the hand, Raoul trailing close behind her. He brought them to his bedroom, a dark place with fewer candles than the main chamber of his lair. He brought a few of them to illuminate the area surrounding the bed, just enough to see by, but not so much that his face might not, if he angled it just right, disappear into the shadows. 

Christine and her Viscount stood nervously, their hands locked together as they took in the sight of the dark sheets and the four posts of the bed rising nearly to the ceiling. 

Erik dragged a large chair to one side, facing it towards the bed, and then turned to the trembling couple, gesturing. 

“As you please,” he said, and sat down in the chair. “Show me how a husband might treat his beloved wife.” He only let a shadow of the bitterness he felt into his voice.

The Viscount looked at him, and then back to Christine, a crease deepening in his brow. “He’s going… to watch?”

Christine looked at Erik now, her own thoughts more mysterious to him than her Viscount’s. Her face was questioning. She bit at her bottom lip nervously, and then her eyes closed, coming to some conclusion or stirred by some new feeling, Erik couldn’t be sure. She put her hand under her Viscount’s chin.

“Ignore him,” and she pulled him closer, edged them closer to the foot of the bed. “Show _me_.”

To his credit, the Monsieur deChagny needed hardly more than that before he kissed her again, just as passionately as before. In short order he tipped her backwards onto the bed, his arms holding her until he too came down on top. His hands roamed over the bodice of her white dress--the one Erik had given her and demanded she wear. Her legs opened for him, and he settled between them, the voluminous skirts still providing a considerable barrier against the instinctual, searching motion of his hips. Christine breathed soft, mewling sighs into his ear. Her hands snaked into his shirt, already half open and damaged from the earlier confrontation, and pulled it down, exposing his shoulders. She pulled herself up by his neck, pressing wet, hungry kisses to his perfect skin. 

“Take me, Raoul,” her knees raised, letting him sink further against her. “You can have me right now, no more waiting,” and her Viscount groaned at that. He drew back and buried his hands in her skirts, pushing them up and out of the way until they covered Christine’s midsection, only her shoulders and head emerging from the mountain of lace and silk. 

Erik gripped the arms of the chair, feeling tortured but unable to look away. From the view he could not quite see what the Viscount saw, but if his face--singularly focused and tense with need--was anything to go by, Christine’s sex was on display and simply waiting for him.

The Viscount began unfastening his trousers, and though he did not _look_ at Erik, exactly, his eyes did glance in that direction before closing and redirecting his gaze to the beauty before him. He took himself in hand and leaned forward to press his manhood--hard and hot-blooded, physically faultless, Erik hated to notice, just like the rest of him--to Christine’s entrance. 

He looked down at her, a final question in his eyes, and she looked up at him full of wonder and bliss. 

He breached her, and Erik knew exactly as it happened because Christine winced suddenly, and Erik nearly threw himself out of his chair. Had already envisioned himself shoving the brute off of her, but soon her face softened, and her Viscount sank deeper. 

“Oh, Christine,” he moaned, and his arms shook with the effort to hold himself up as he moved inside her. “My God, you feel--” and his words ran out there, groaning at the feeling of her enveloping him. 

“Raoul…” she said dreamily, and Erik noted that her eyes would flutter shut occasionally, in time with her Viscount’s gentle thrusts. He moved in her faster, the two of them sighing sweetly at each other as Erik sat, uselessly gritting his teeth. He studied the Viscount’s face, and the man was enjoying himself, to be sure, but there wasn’t a fire beneath the surface as there had been earlier, when--

Erik stood, the two lovers hardly noticing when he took his leave, or perhaps so wrapped up in their own delights that they didn’t care. He returned after a minute, the Viscount still thrusting, Christine still sighing along with it, apparently perfectly content. 

Erik approached the bed, hands firmly behind his back in a show of mock assessment. “All right, well,” as he spoke, the Viscount stuttered to a stop, and they both looked at him; The Viscount annoyed, Christine seemingly only confused. “I think that gets the point across, don’t you?” 

Erik stood uncomfortably close and clamped one hand around the Viscount’s arm. He tried to break free, but Erik only wound the remnants of the lasso around his wrist, then catching the other arm and doing the same. In a few seconds Erik had pulled the Viscount off of Christine entirely and bound his hands behind his back. 

“Angel!” Christine yelped, just as her Viscount demanded, “What are you--you swore you wouldn’t--.”

Erik tightened the knot at the Viscount’s wrists and used the ample leftover to circle his throat, which shut him up completely, even though Erik knew quite definitively that it wasn’t nearly tight enough to do so. 

“And I am true to my word. You are both still free to go. You only need to say “no” or “stop” or any number of simple words and I’ll quit, but,” Erik tugged at the ropes, and the Viscount tensed throughout his body, “I don’t think you want to say them, do you?”

Monsieur deChagny stared daggers at Erik a long moment, breathing sharply through his nose. 

Christine, having already pushed her skirts back down in an attempt at modesty, sat up and reached out to her Viscount. She studied him, her face turning soft in the way that struck Erik in the chest. “It’s okay, darling…” She stood and wrapped her arms around his waist, his erection between them showing no sign of relenting. “It’s okay if you want it.”

His jaw clenched again, eyes downcast, but eventually he looked at her, and nodded. 

“If that’s settled?” Erik said, pulling on the rope to lead the Viscount away. 

“Wait,” said Christine, and she pulled her Viscount’s trousers down from his thighs until they pooled at his feet. He stepped out of them and looked down at her quizzically. 

“I don’t want you to trip,” she said, and kissed him, quick and sweet on the mouth. 

Erik huffed and pulled the Viscount--now clad only in a sorry-looking, half undone white shirt--away from the bed. He paused and thought aloud, “I suppose I could put you in the chair, but I think your blushing bride might wish to have you closer at hand, hm?” The Viscount made no reply, only watching Erik with narrow eyes. No matter, his mind had been made up.

“Come, kneel on the bed just here--that’s it.” Erik took what little was left of the lasso and tied it off on a post at the head of the bed, leaving The Viscount sitting up on his knees in the corner. He may as well have been an obscene statue for how rigid he held himself, but the man made no sign of distress, spoke no word to stop, so Erik finally turned his back. 

He stood with Christine at the foot of the bed, much as the Viscount had done, and all at once he was awash with the realization that she would--that he might--the thing he had dreamt of and written songs for but never actually _known_ \--she was standing before him, not even trembling so much now, not frightened of the creature of before her. The heat that had begun building in him since Christine had acquiesced to his proposal now burned under his skin.

He reached out, cupping her face. He leaned in, slow enough that she could pull away if she didn’t want--but she didn’t pull away. She met Erik’s distorted lips with her own, and she kissed him back. He let out a whimper at that, immediately embarrassed by it, but Christine didn’t seem to mind. She kept kissing him, her fingers curling around the fabric of his jacket. 

Gathering some of his wits about him, Erik wrapped his arms around her in return, partially just for the thrill, the joy of it, but also so that his fingers might find the clasps at the back of her dress. It was an old stage costume that he’d pilfered in his earlier days haunting the opera house, and so despite its beautiful detailing, it had the benefit of fairly simple fastenings to allow for quick changes during a show. Christine exhaled against his neck as the bodice loosened around her ribs. She pulled her arms from the sleeves and looked up at him as the whole thing slid down her body in one piece.

Christine reached for his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and Erik remembered how she’d exposed Raoul, how she had liked seeing him, and Erik couldn’t imagine that she wanted him in the same way, that she might press her mouth to his skin the way she had her Viscount’s, but still he freed himself of the jacket. She seemed satisfied by that for the moment, and Erik took the opportunity to absorb the sight of her, dressed now in only her corset and underthings. 

He leaned down, speaking low and soft. “Would you turn around for me?” 

She did, and he saw the Viscount’s face as she locked eyes with him. His eyes widened, and he strained against the ropes. Erik could not see Christine’s face, but her Viscount calmed and gave her a reassuring nod, his cheeks and chest still flushed red with desire. 

As they played out their silent exchange, Erik’s fingers worked the laces of Christine’s corset, finally loosening it enough that he could pull it over her head. Free of it, she turned to face him in the thin fabric of her chemise. Sweat had hugged it to her curves in places, revealing glimpses of her body, and Erik needed more like he needed air in his lungs.

But before he could reach out and ask for it, Christine’s fingers began opening the buttons of his waistcoat. 

“Are you sure?” Erik blurted out, even though she didn’t seem the least conflicted. 

“It’s only fair, Angel.” she replied with a hint, only the slightest measure, of wickedness in the quirk of her lips, and Erik felt a surge of heat entirely in his groin. 

“I--Please, call me Erik.”

She looked at him, almost disbelieving at first, but that faded into an easy smile. “Erik,” she said, testing it in her mouth, and he could not help but kiss her again. 

She worked at the waistcoat, and he untied his tie, moving to the buttons at his neck. Once the waistcoat was off, she started pulling his shirt from where it tucked into his trousers, not quite tall enough to pull it off of him, but certainly suggesting as much. Erik wanted to ask again if she was sure, wanted to still her hands, but couldn’t bring himself to deny her. He pulled the shirt off, and Christine’s touch quickly took its place. Her fingers grazed over his chest, and eventually his shoulder, his neck, where the tissue knotted at the edges of his deformity. Erik’s eyes fell shut and for a moment her caresses were the only thing in the world he knew. 

He did eventually reach out and tease at the collar of her chemise. “Please, let me see you.”

She looked down as if she barely noticed she was still wearing the undergarment, and unceremoniously pulled it off. Erik could hardly breathe, the soft planes of her skin seemed impossible, like something beyond imagination. 

He must have stood and stared at her too long, because she began to shift, looking down at herself as if to make sure the problem wasn’t with her. Erik, still unable to speak, dropped to his knees. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his face on her smooth belly. She startled at this, and Erik knew it wasn’t right, knew it wasn’t what a man was supposed--he began kissing her, just under her ribs, on her stomach, inching down to her hips. He didn’t know how else to show how grateful he was for her, for her courage to stand before him and let herself be seen, be touched by someone like him. 

She shifted again, and this time squeezed his arm where it wrapped around her. He looked up, and she wasn’t startled now. She looked comfortable and--and wanting. 

He continued kissing her, and now he knew. He’d never had this, but he’d read stories. Literature about the pleasures a husband might give a wife, a lover, and his mouth moved over her until it reached dark curls coiling between her legs. 

Christine jumped a little at the first press of his mouth there. He glanced up to find her eyes wide, but she nodded at him quickly, spreading her legs and blushing at her own desire. 

Erik dipped his head to taste the folds there, finding it heavy and intoxicating on his tongue. He knew, distantly, the some of the scent, the taste of her must also be her Viscount, but right now, with his face buried in her sex, Erik did not care to distinguish. He only wished to dive deeper. 

Christine gasped above him at the swipes of his tongue, and Erik had hardly known a more compelling encouragement. He lavished and sucked at her sex, his tongue gliding over a nub of flesh that made Christine cry out. He teased at her entrance, imagining the wet heat of it on his length--now undeniably, almost painfully hard--and only barely managed to stop from grasping himself through his pants. 

Christine was panting now, one hand still holding his arm in a vice grip, the other steadying her on the bed-post. 

Erik thought of the little sighs she’d made at her Viscount’s thrusts, and instead of grabbing himself, he brought his fingers up to join his mouth. One slid into her, tentatively, and Christine’s hips jumped. She brought them down on him harder, _yes_ and please punctuating her gasps as he twisted and curled the digit inside her. 

“Oh--oh, _Erik_ ,” Christine cried out, and it was the most beautiful sound his finely tuned ear had ever heard. He immediately wanted to hear it again, more than any aria, any song that might have graced the stage. 

He added another finger, sped his tongue to match the swaying of her tireless hips, and he could tell that she was on a precipice. Her breathing was stilted, her eyes screwed shut, and all at once she let out a sound like pain, but not pain, and clenched around his fingers. Her whole body seemed to jerk with the sensation of it, and Erik’s mouth kept moving until her hand came down on his forehead and pushed him away, panting and whimpering as his fingers slid out of her. 

She held onto the bed-post for a breath, and then let herself fall back on the mattress, her limbs spread loosely around her while she recovered. From behind her, the Viscount let out a breath of his own, and Christine looked up at him, her eyes still heavy lidded. 

“Christine,” his voice was a tortured baritone, owing, Erik assumed, to the bruising at his neck and the arousal that still hung stiff between his legs, “Oh, God...Christine.”

Erik watched with more than a little tension in his shoulders as Christine shifted on the bed, moving on hands and knees to where her Viscount was bound and calling to her. She closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his cheek. She brought herself up, almost flush against him, and the Viscount hissed through his teeth when her body brushed at his aching, turgid flesh. She spoke so close to his mouth they were surely sharing breath. “Raoul… I love you,” and he closed his eyes, sinking against the words and her touch. “That was--I want more…” She spoke these words tentatively, softly, but Erik heard no apology in it, and the fact of it roiled in him, stoking that all-consuming fire under his skin.

The Viscount nodded at her, and then strained at the bonds to press his lips to hers. She kissed him back, running her fingers through that lovely blonde hair and finally parting to make her way down to the foot of the bed. Erik still knelt there, initially made so unsure by the happy couple’s display that he dared not to stand. 

She was on her stomach now, propped up by her elbows and facing him straight on. “Do you want more, Erik?” He could not imagine growing accustomed to hearing his name from her throat spoken in such a manner--he _would_ not, Erik reminded himself, because this would be the only evening he would hear it. She would leave with her Viscount by morning and Erik would only have the memory of the sound, a complete seduction held in two ugly syllables. 

“I want anything you deign to give, my dear, and shall endeavor to return the favor twice over.”

Her nose wrinkled, and first Erik thought it must be disgust, that letting him pleasure her with his mouth was one thing, but the idea that he might bed her like--like a man might, was a bridge too far. But soon a smile quirked her lips, and her eyes were as kind as they’d been when she looked at her Viscount. “Don’t you think we’re past favors? This isn’t charity on my part, it’s…” she seemed to turn inward, searching. “I don’t know, exactly, but it’s not that.”

Erik could not make sense of it, could not imagine what she might mean, but it wasn’t deceit, he was sure. Her face held so few secrets from him, he’d studied it so thoroughly, and she was as genuine now as she had always been. So Erik only brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, and said, “Then yes, Christine, I want you so badly I ache for it.”

“Then have it.”

Erik stood, and without taking his gaze from Christine’s perfect, encouraging face, began opening his trousers. When he freed himself from the constraints of fabric, his rigid member bobbed in the air obscenely, and Erik wanted to cover himself, to shield Christine’s eyes, but Christine--her face lit up, apparently not so disgusted by this evidence of his lust as Erik was. Her mouth shined where her tongue had darted out to wet it, and Erik was consumed by a thought--one inspired by that same literature outlining marital pleasures--of parting her lips with the organ now gripped in his hand, of her mouth on him like his had been on her, and--No, he wouldn’t, she wouldn’t--

“Would you lie back for me?” 

Christine did so, sitting up and letting herself fall slowly onto the sheets, sliding closer, inviting him with her legs spread. Erik took in the sight, her hair splayed around her like an angel’s wings, the soft, hypnotizing curves of her body. She swayed her hips before him, a clear signal, and Erik placed a hand on her knee, lowering himself over her. 

As bewitched as he was by the sight between them, Erik watched Christine’s face as he entered her, and she did not wince. Instead her eyes fell shut and her mouth fell open and she gripped at the sheets beneath her. Erik in that moment thought he had some idea of what she felt. It was suddenly so clear that his past self-abuse had been only a puddle to a man dying of thirst, and this--the feeling of her surrounding him, welcoming him and pushing back for _more_ \--was a deluge. 

He groaned as he buried himself completely, and her eyes opened at the sound. She reached for him, dragged one hand down his stomach, and Erik shuddered, the vibrations of it reaching her where their bodies met. He drew back, the slick drag of it almost too much to bear, and entered her again, faster this time. She made a sound high in her throat, and Erik continued to thrust, their voices building on each other, moans and gasps that chased one another in a rising syncopated rhythm. 

Without meaning to, Erik glanced at the bound Viscount who watched them--really, he watched Christine, observing her face like it held some great secret, a belief that Erik could certainly find no fault in. His arousal was still obvious, and on his skin was a manly sheen of sweat that almost glowed in the candlelight. Erik shook his head to clear it, letting his gaze fall back where it longed to be, on Christine. 

Erik leaned forward, and it made the pumping of his hips grow more shallow, but it was worth it to touch her. He palmed her soft breasts, almost shocked by how well they molded to his hand, like a cup filling with sweet wine. Her stiff nipples were a contrast, and when he brushed them her eyes fluttered shut. Christine’s hand curled around his arm, her short nails digging into his skin. She pulled at it until he lowered himself onto her completely, still thrusting, but now splitting his attention between it and the way her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. 

“Oh,” he murmured as they parted, “I would dream, but I did not _know_.This is--you are _perfection_.”

Christine’s legs came up to wrap around his midsection, and Erik could think of hardly anything now but the coiling tension in his belly. The wet heat of her was unrelenting, and he couldn’t stop the growing desperation in his thrusts. 

“I believe--Ah,” his rhythm faltered as he tried to grasp at his composure, “I am nearly undone.”

“Yes, Erik. _Yes_ ,” and her legs held him now, keeping their bodies flush as he drove into her, ragged and delirious until finally his release spilled into that searing heat, leaving him like a wave that crashed over his entirety. 

He collapsed over her, burying his face in her neck as her hands traced soothing circles over his back. 

Both of them looked up at the Viscount’s rasping plea. “Christine… please let me--I need,” and the poor man looked nearly as desperate as Erik had felt during those final thrusts. 

“Erik,” Christine turned back to him, placing a hand on his chest, “Will you untie him for me?”

Erik nodded, and slipped himself from her, hissing at the feel of it. He left a mess on the sheets in his wake, but disregarded it as he stood and made his way to the suffering Viscount. 

As Erik’s hands began working at the simple knot, the Viscount spoke. “You don’t have to--not all the way.” There was a streak of shame that ran through the words, and again Erik was struck with some sympathy for him. He was not proud of his desires, but he desired them all the same. 

“Perhaps I will release Monsieur le Vicomte from the post but keep his wrists bound. Would that be amenable?”

The Viscount looked to Christine, so close and yet out of reach. “Yes, that’s--yes.”

So Erik did, and took the rope from around his throat for good measure. He released one wrist, and the Viscount eyed him questioningly, but Erik maneuvered his arms so they were in front, and bound them again. “So that the lady might have you on your back,” he said, by way of explanation. The Viscount shivered, and Erik couldn’t help but notice that with his blood up like this, his lips were almost as pink as Christine’s.

Christine was sitting up now, her eyes watching her Viscount hungrily. He made his way towards her on his knees and lifted his bound hands to cup her face. She kissed him, and the two of them tipped back, easy as though they’d planned it, her coming down over him. He stretched his legs out with a groan, and she straddled his hips. His fingers tangled in her hair where it tumbled over her shoulders. 

Christine shifted so that her sex was poised just over his straining organ, a spot of wetness already pooling at the tip. Erik watched, feeling stirred, even if he wasn’t nearly ready to be hard again. He leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed the rope binding the Viscounts wrists, wrenching them until they were up over his head.

The Viscount’s hips jumped immediately at that, and Erik tightened the ropes a little cruelly, just to see, and--The Viscount groaned. 

“I think you ought to make what use of him that you can, my dear. He’s not bound to last very long in this state, I’m afraid.”

Christine blushed at that, somehow still capable after all she’d been party to, but then she put her hands on her Viscount’s chest and lowered herself, her head falling back as she sank onto him. 

The Viscount was helpless at that, either to escape Erik’s grip--although he hardly tried--or do anything other than let Christine ride him at whatever pace she chose. For now, it was slow, and clearly torturous for the poor Viscount. He tried to raise his hips to meet her, but she only let him get so far. 

“Let me,” she whispered to him, and he tensed with the effort of stilling himself.

Slowly, she moved faster, took him deeper, and both she and the Viscount were sharing a string of keening, helpless moans with one another. Erik noticed with some conflicted satisfaction that his own seed spilled out of her each time she took him. When it seemed they had nearly reached a fever pitch, the Viscount looked suddenly up at Erik. 

“Please,” he begged, shame having left his face completely, “let me touch her.”

Erik looked at Christine, and seeing no objection began loosening the rope, releasing one wrist and letting the tangle of the remaining lasso dangle from the other. At once the Viscount gripped Christine’s hips as though they were a lifeline, and this time when he rose to meet her she didn’t discourage it, letting him plunge into her with all of the fervor he’d been holding back. His hands traveled up her body, and Erik thought he might stop at her breasts, but instead it was her face that the Viscount took into his hands, his thumbs tenderly brushing her cheeks as he reached his crisis. “Christine!” he cried, and held himself still as she took him to the hilt and gasped at his release filling her. 

She stayed on him like that, catching her breath and being wracked by occasional aftershocks of pleasure while his hands fell to her thighs and he gazed up at nothing, utterly dazed. Erik looked on, hesitant to break their reverie, although he couldn’t say why.

Eventually, Christine came back to her senses and slid off of her Viscount, which earned a half-hearted whimper from him. She took up the wrist that still had the lasso wrapped loosely around it and began working at the knot, eventually slipping it off. She placed gentle kisses to both his wrists where they were red from the rope, and then moved to do the same for the stripe of raw, irritated skin at his throat. He sighed and pulled her in until her head rested on his chest, his hand on her hair. 

That same heaviness twisted in Erik’s chest, so he turned away. He saw the clothes, theirs and his, strewn across the floor, and wanted very suddenly to pick it all up, remove the evidence, despite the blissful lovers still currently occupying his bed. He went to his armoire, deciding he should at least get a robe to maintain a modicum of decency, but then heard Christine’s melodious voice calling his name.

“Erik, what are you doing?” 

“Apologies, I’ll leave you in just a mom--”

“Leave? Erik, come here.”

And he did, the robe he might have picked abandoned on its hanger. He stood at the bed, looking down, and the couple had rearranged themselves so that the Viscount lay next to Christine with a sizable expanse of mattress on her other side. She slid her hand over the sheets and looked at Erik pointedly.

“Why would you leave? This is your bed.” She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, her smile only bemused. “Lay down.”

Erik crawled onto the bed and laid next to them, straight-backed and leaving ample space between himself and her lovely, warm, intoxicating skin. 

“Have you,” he asked, because as much as he dreaded the answer, he could not lie here and have hope eating him alive all night, “made your choice?”

She scoffed and shuffled herself closer, one breast resting on his shoulder as if it were nothing remarkable, her knee grazing his thigh. “No,” she said, and pulled one of the Vi--one of Raoul’s arms around her, pulling him flush against her back, and draping her own over Erik’s chest, her hand curling just up under his ear. “And I don’t think I will.”


End file.
